


Small comforts

by Elisexyz



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: (at least the present timeline in Storybrooke), (to the surprise of myself first and foremost LOL), Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Nightmares, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Neal and bedtime stories throughout the years.
Relationships: Baelfire | Neal Cassidy & Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Baelfire | Neal Cassidy & Mary Darling, Baelfire | Neal Cassidy & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Baelfire | Neal Cassidy/Emma Swan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 13





	Small comforts

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on and off on this for what feels like _forever_ , but finally here it is! A Neal-centric, surprisingly canon compliant fic while I try to finish the next chapter for my Swanfire series LOL.  
>  For the record, it's canon compliant because it doesn't go any further than the Tallahassee Era, there's no mention of character death anywhere.  
>  Well, enjoy!

His papa used to tell him stories, when the nights were too dark and the howling wind seemed to want to tear their home off their heads. Baelfire would curl up right under his father’s arm, his fingers holding tight onto the closest fistful of clothing he could reach, and he’d let his comforting voice wash away the heaviness in his chest.

He was told of brave knights and beautiful princesses and parents reunited with their long-lost children, of all the good things in the world that seemed so far away, during that kind of night.

As he grew, that habit somehow got lost. He still gets to curl up next to his dad, still gets to be held and to be told _it’s alright_ and _everything will be alright_ , and it might just be more reassuring than a story, because that is a reminder that his papa is _there_ and a promise that he always will be.

It's for him and for him only, and Baelfire revels in the reassurance, somehow thinking that if they hold onto each other tightly enough that promise won’t ever be broken.

Mrs Darling loves telling stories.

Almost every night, she takes out a chair and sits in front of them, waiting until they are all settled and ready to sleep before she begins the tale of the night. They are full of magic and wonder, fairies granting wishes, princesses awoken by True Love’s Kiss, magic islands where children can be happy—somehow, all of the things that scare Baelfire so much sound almost beautiful coming out of her mouth.

Somehow, for the length of time that it takes her voice to lull him into a comfortable sleep, he can pretend like magic isn’t some evil disease, he can pretend like it’s only a thing of beautiful fairy-tales, that it never touched him the way it will never touch his new family.

Baelfire wakes up screaming, the image of his father disappearing in a flash of green slow to fade even as he realizes that there’s only dark around him, that he is not at home, nor in the streets, he’s—he’s in the captain’s cabin. He can tentatively make out a few shapes as he sits trembling, his heart still pounding and his eyes burning like wildfire.

Knowing where he is doesn’t do much to calm him down, not when reality doesn’t offer any refuge from his nightmare, not when it was all very much _real_. He keeps himself from sobbing, swallowing around the lump in his throat and pressing his palms against his face when he remembers that it _happened_ , his dad just tossed him away, he _left_ him—

“Is everything alright there, lad?”

He starts, his heart leaping in his throat as he turns to Killian. He can only make out his shape, sitting up, very much awake.

Crap, he _woke him up_. Because he was having a nightmare.

Baelfire swallows, nodding before he can think any better of it. He clears his throat, finding it horribly dry, and he just hopes that his voice won’t tremble. “I’m okay,” he says, just a little unsteady. “Sorry I woke you up.” He can’t cry in front of him, he can’t cry in front of him, he can’t cry—

“It’s alright,” Killian says, dismissively. He pauses. “Nightmares?”

Baelfire presses his mouth shut and somehow hopes that if he stays still enough he will disappear.

Killian seems to take his silence for an admission. “Ah, well, it happens,” he says, easily. Then, after a few moments of silence: “Do you have any intention of going back to sleep?”

He doesn’t sound _bothered_ at the prospect, but Baelfire still feels like he’s being accused of something, like he’s just one wrong word away from being thrown out. “I won’t make a sound,” he promises, a lie not coming readily to his tongue.

Killian huffs. “Oh, nonsense, we are both awake, aren’t we?” he says, flipping at the air in dismissal. “I say we make use of this time. We did have a lesson about navigation planned, didn’t we? I’m betting there’s a clear sky outside waiting just for us.”

Baelfire isn’t sure how enthusiastic he is at the thought of putting his brain to work right now, but it’s a distraction and it’s an offer for company and he _really_ dreads going back to sleep only to find his father waiting behind his eyelids once again.

Before he knows it, there’s fresh air hitting his face, not particularly chilly but certainly refreshing compared to the cabin, and he already feels a little less like he’s suffocating.

He’s expecting Killian to show him some maps, have him stand somewhere as he begins explaining, instead he lowers himself down on the floor, back against the wood. “Come on,” he prompts, gesturing to the spot next to him.

Baelfire frowns, but he doesn’t protest, sitting down and realizing too late that he should have left a little more space between them. Now he can’t really slide away without being offensive, can he?

“Alright, let me see…” Killian muses, his eyes searching through the huge amount of stars above them. Baelfire knows that there are patterns that he’s supposed to see there, but to him they are only an assortment of bright dots, and his stomach churns in anticipation of being a disaster at this.

“There,” Killian eventually says, apparently satisfied. He points him in the direction of a constellation, explaining that it’s called The Diving Man, trying to get him to see the dot that’s the head, the lines that make out his bent arms as he swims, the small torso and long legs.

Baelfire thinks he sort of sees it, after quite a bit of squinting. Maybe. Possibly.

Killian doesn’t seem to notice his uncertainty. “Now, knowing your stars is really important in this life, lad, but there’s—a _lot_ of them. So, the trick here is finding a good way to remember them, and if you ask me the best one is with the stories behind the names. Take our Diving Man here, for instance—”

Under Baelfire’s disbelieving gaze, he starts telling him the story of a man desperately searching for a mermaid to court. Killian doesn’t look at him once, he just—keeps his eyes up and doesn’t stop talking.

By the second story, Baelfire is beginning to feel more at ease, beginning to slouch a little as his eyelids grow heavier.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning, when he wakes up back in the cabin, he feels a little bit more at home.

He can’t sleep, so he draws.

This cave will probably be his home for who knows how long, and it’s so empty and grey, there’s just him, he—wants to fill it with something. He wants to stop everything that he’s ever loved from slipping away between his fingers.

He draws the Darlings, and he tries to think back to the stories Mrs Darling told them, muttering one under his breath, thinking he’s getting it confused with one of those his _father_ used to tell him— _Port and starboard_ , he tells himself, drawing and drawing and talking of mermaids and pirates and drowned witches to no one, willing to take the bitter taste of betrayal in the back of his mouth if it helps him feel like it was all _real_.

He tells himself stories, over and over again, talking over the cries of the other Lost Boys and trying to pretend like he’s a little less alone.

(It doesn’t work that well, but it’s something.)

Waking up in the middle of the night with the last traces of a nightmare sinking in the back of his mind is nothing new. What _is_ still new is not being alone, turning around and finding comfort into the fact that he has Emma, curled up in the backseat and—wide awake.

“Hey,” he says, his mind still a little clouded with sleep. “Why are you still awake?” He isn’t sure what hour it is exactly, but it’s dark outside, the streetlights the only thing allowing them to see anything at all.

She shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself. Maybe she’s cold, it _is_ a little chilly—he shifts to pull his jacket a little farther up to his neck, thinking of offering that one spare hoodie that he keeps in his backpack.

“We are in a car, it’s not that comfortable,” she says, curtly. It sounds a little defensive, but he doesn’t think he is in a position to start pressing for more than she wants to give.

“We can switch if you want,” he offers, though he highly doubts she’d find the front seat any more comfortable.

“Thanks, but that’s worse,” she answers. Her tone is a little warmer, maybe out of amusement, and it gives him some courage to keep pocking the sleeping dragon.

“Well, what do you normally do?” he asks, twisting a little so that he can better look at her. “When you can’t sleep?”

She stares at him for a few moments. “Toss and turn?”

He hums. “Is it helpful?”

Poor lighting or not, the glare that she throws his way is hard to miss.

Which, fair.

“Okay, how about I tell you a story then?”

She snorts. “A bedtime story? I’m not a child.”

He huffs, stretching his legs a little and flexing his fingers. “Come _on_ , if it doesn’t help you can have backseat privileges for, uh, a month or so.” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop to think about how there’s no guarantee that they’ll still be together in a few days, let alone a whole _month_ , and though he’s positive that she’s noticed him jumping the gun she’s at least kind enough not to point it out. Which is a great, because his stomach is already twisting up in knots at the thought of being left alone once again after a little reprieve.

“ _Fine_ ,” she eventually says, shaking her head. “Let’s try it your way.”

He can’t help grinning, some weight lifting off his shoulders knowing that he can help her. “Alright, so, get comfortable—let me think about it for a minute—”

“Are you going to make it up on the spot?” Emma asks, better fixing her backpack behind her head as she gets settled, arms crossed and her chin hidden under her jacket.

“Nope, I’ve just got a big catalogue to choose from, hold on—”

He mentally scans through bits and pieces of stories that come to mind, eventually settling on the story of a runaway princess with an attitude, which he thinks Emma is probably going to enjoy—he thinks it was one of Hook’s, to go with the constellation shaped like her skirt and knife, but maybe he mixed it up a little with one of his father’s: sometimes, on Neverland, it was a little hard to keep everything straight in his head.

He realizes then that he’s never shared these stories with anyone. He thinks that they will be safe, though, in Emma’s hands.

“Okay, so,” he smiles, in response to her expectant gaze. “Once upon a time…” 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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